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As all the fiends from heaven that fell
Had pealed the banner-ery of hell!
Forth from the passin'tūmūlt-driven,
Like chaff before the wind of heaven, -
The archery appear:
For life! for life! their plight they ply—
And shriek, and shout, and battle-cry,
And plaids and bonnets waving high,
And broadswords flashing to the sky,
Are maddening in the rear. ...
Onward they drive, in dreadful race,
Pursuers and pursued;
Before that tide of flight and chase,
How shall it keep its rooted place,
The spearmen's twilight wood?—
‘Down, down,’ cried Mar, ‘your lances down!
Bear back both friend and foe!’—
Like reeds before the tempest's frown,
That serried grove of lances brown
At once lay levelled low;
And closely shouldering side to side,
The bristling ranks the onset bide.—
‘We’ll quell the savage mountaineer,
As their Tinchel11 cows the game!
They come as fleet as forest deer,
We’ll drive them back as tame.’—


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“Bearing before them, in their course,
The relics of the archer force,
Like wave with crest of sparkling foam,
Right onward did Clan-Alpine come.
Above the tide, each broadsword bright
Was brandishing like beam of light,
Each targe was dark below;
And with the ocean’s mighty swing,
When heaving to the tempest's wing,
They hurled them on the foe.
I heard the lance's shivering crash,
As when the whirlwind rends the ash;
I heard the broadsword's deadly clang,
As if an hundred anvils rang!
But Moray wheeled his rearward rank
Of horsemen on Clan-Alpine's flank,
‘My banner-man, advance!
I see,” he cried, ‘their column shake.
Now, gallants! for your ladies' sake,
Upon them with the lance!”—
The horsemen dashed among the rout,
As deer break through the broom;
Their steeds are stout, their swords are out,
They soon make lightsome room.
Clan-Alpine’s best are backward borne—
Where, where was Roderick then!
One blast upon his bugle-horn
Were worth a thousand men.
And refluent through the pass of fear
The battle's tide was poured;


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11 A circle of hunters surrounding game.

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“Now westward rolls the battle's din,
That deep and doubling pass within.-
Minstrel, away! the work of fate
Is bearing on: its issue wait,
Where the rude Trosachs’ dread defile
Opens on Katrine's lake and isle.—
Gray Benvenue I soon repassed,
Loch Katrine lay beneath me cast.
The sun is set;-the clouds are met,
The lowering scowl of heaven
An inky hue of livid blue
To the deep lake has given;
Strange gusts of wind from mountain glen
Swept o'er the lake, then sunk agen.
I heeded not the eddying surge,
Mine eye but saw the Trosachs’ gorge,
Mine ear but heard the sullen sound,
Which like an earthquake shook the ground,
And spoke the stern and desperate strife
That parts not but with parting life,
Seeming, to minstrel ear, to toll
The dirge of many a passing soul.
Nearer it comes—the dim-wood glen
The martial flood disgorged agen,
But not in mingled tide;
The plaided warriors of the North
High on the mountain thunder forth
And overhang its side;
While by the lake below appears
The dark’ning cloud of Saxon spears.
At weary bay each shattered band,
Eying their foemen, sternly stand;
Their banners stream like tattered sail,
That flings its fragments to the gale,
And broken arms and disarray
Marked the fell havoc of the day.

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“Viewing the mountain's ridge askance,
The Saxon stood in sullen trance,
Till Moray pointed with his lance,
And cried—‘Behold yon isle!—
See! none are left to guard its strand,
But women weak, that wring the hand:
'Tis there of yore the robber band
Their booty wont to pile;—

12 Waterfall

My purse, with bonnet-pieces store, is
To him will 14 swim a bow-shot o'er,
And loose a shallop from the shore.
Lightly we'll tame the war-wolf then,
Lords of his mate, and brood, and den.'-
Forth from the ranks a spearman sprung,
On earth his casque and corslet rung,
He plunged him in the wave:–
All saw the deed—the purpose knew,
And to their clamours Benvenue
A mingled echo gave;
The Saxons shout, their mate to cheer,
The helpless females scream for fear,
And yells for rage the mountaineer.
'Twas then, as by the outcry riven,
Poured down at once the lowering heaven;
A whirlwind swept Loch Katrine's breast,
Her billows reared their snowy crest.
Well for the swimmer swelled they high,
To mar the Highland marksman's eye;
For round him showered, 'mid rain and hail,
The vengeful arrows of the Gael.15– 560
In vain.—He nears the isle—and lo!
His hand is on a shallop's bow.
Just then a flash of lightning came,
It tinged the waves and strand with flame;—
I marked Duncraggan's widowed dame,”
Behind an oak I saw her stand,
A naked dirk gleamed in her hand:—
It darkened, but amid the moan
Of waves, I heard a dying groan;–
Another flash!—the spearman floats
A weltering corse beside the boats,
And the stern matron o'er him stood,
Her hand and dagger streaming blood.

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Oft had he stolen a glance, to spy 590
How Roderick brooked his minstrelsy:
At first, the Chieftain, to the chime,
With lifted hand kept feeble time;
That motion ceased, yet feeling strong
Varied his look as changed the song;
At length, no more his deafened ear
The minstrel melody can hear;
His face grows sharp, his hands are clenched,
As if some pang his heart-strings wrenched;
Set are his teeth, his fading eye
Is sternly fixed on vacancy;
Thus, motionless and moanless, drew
His parting breath, stout Roderick Dhul-
Old Allan-bane looked on aghast,
While grim and still his spirit passed;
But when he saw that life was fled,
He poured his wailing o'er the dead.


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And dry that cheek so pale; Young Frank is chief of Errington And lord of Langley-dale; His step is first in peaceful ha', His sword in battle keen’’— But aye she loot the tears down fa’ For Jock of Hazeldean. 16 “A chain of gold ye sall not lack, Nor braid to bind your hair; Nor mettled hound, nor managedi hawk, Nor palfrey fresh and fair; And you, the foremost o' them a”, Shall ride our forest queen.”— But aye she loot the tears down fa’ For Jock of Hazeldean. 24 The kirk was decked at morning-tide, The tapers glimmered fair; The priest and bridegroom wait the bride, And dame and knight are there. They sought her baith by bower and ha’; The ladie was not seen! She's o'er the Border and awa” Wi’ Jock of Hazeldean. 32

13 gold ons (stamped with the king's head) in

plenty. 14 Who Will 15 Highlander 16 Widow of the Duncan mourned for in the Coronach on H. 444. 17 Douglas, an exile, to whom Roderick Dhu had given shelter.

1 trained

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2 brave, fine

* John Graham of Claverhouse, Wiscount Dundee,
in support of James II. withstood the Scotch
Covenanters, defied the Convention, or Scotch
Parliament, which had accepted King
William, and marched out of Edinburgh with
a few faithful followers in 1689, thus
creating the “Jacobite” party. He met the
government forces at Killiecrankie and de-
feated them, but was killed in the battle.
See Macaulay's account of that battle in the
present volume.

3 reversing the chimes
(as an alarm)

12 hoods made at Kil-
marnock (here used

4 Mayor for the wearers,
5 sedate Presbyterians)
6 win d i ng s of Bow 13 knives

street 14 blind alleys
7 each old woman 15 The site of Edin-
8 scolding burgh Castle, then
9 head held by the Duke

10 gracious and sly

of Gordon.

11 The place of execu- 16 nickname of a can-
tion (see Midlo- non
thian, chap. II). 17 mates

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Bring the bowl which you boast, Fill it up to the brim; 19 gentlemen of minor

'Tis to him we love most,
And to all who love him.

Brave gallants, stand up,
And avaunt ye, base carles!

Were there death in the cup,
Here's a health to King Charles.

Though he wanders through dangers,
Unaided, unknown,
Dependent on strangers,
Estranged from his own;
Though 't is under our breath,
Amidst forfeits and perils,
Here's to honour and faith,
And a health to King Charles!

Let such honours abound
As the time can afford,
The knee on the ground,
And the hand on the sword;
But the time shall come round
When, 'mid Lords, Dukes, and Earls,
The loud trumpet shall sound,
Here’s a health to King Charles.

LORD BYRON (1788-1824)


When Vice triumphant holds her sov’reign sway, Obeyed by all who nought beside obey; When Folly, frequent harbinger of crime, Bedecks her cap with bells of every Clime; When knaves and fools combined o'er all prevail, 30 And weigh their Justice in a Golden Scale; E’en then the boldest start from public sneers, Afraid of Shame, unknown to other fears, More darkly sin, by Satire kept in awe, And shrink from Ridicule, though not from Law.

Such is the force of Wit! but not belong To me the arrows of satiric song; The royal vices of our age demand A keener weapon, and a mightier hand .

Still there are follies, e'en for me to chase, 40

degree 20 tanned

18 A royalist executed in 1650.

* This satire is in part a retort which Byron was stung into making by the ridicule with which the Edinburgh Review in January, 1808, received his youthful volume of verses, Hours of Idleness; though he had before planned a satirical poem upon contemporary English foot, In later years he regretted his severty, and especially his treatment of Francis Jeffrey, the editor of the journal. whom he had wrongly suspected of writing the offending

article. ee Eng. Lit., p. 246.

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And yield at least amusement in the race:
Laugh when I laugh, I seek no other fame,
The cry is up, and scribblers are my game:
Speed, Pegasus!—ye strains of great and small,
Odel Epic' Elegy!—have at you all!
I, too, can scrawl, and once upon a time
I poured along the town a flood of rhyme,
A schoolboy freak, unworthy praise or blame;
I printed—older children do the same. 49
'Tis pleasant, sure, to see one's name in print;
A Book’s a Book, altho’ there's nothing in 't.
Not that a Title’s sounding charm can save
Or scrawl or scribbler from an equal grave:
This Lamb1 must own, since his patrician name
Failed to preserve the spurious farce from
No matter, George continues still to write,
Tho' now the name is veiled from public sight.
Moved by the great example, I pursue
The self-same road, but make my own review:

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While such are Critics, why should I forbear?

Behold! in various throngs the scribbling crew, For notice eager, pass in long review: Each spurs his jaded Pegasus apace, And Rhyme and Blank maintain an equal race; Sonnets on sonnets crowd, and ode on ode; And Tales of Terrors jostle on the road; | Immeasurable measures move along; * For simpering Folly loves a varied song, 150 To strange, mysterious Dulness still the friend, Admires the strain she cannot comprehend. Thus Lays of Minstrels—may they be the last!— On half-strung harps whine mournful to the blast, While mountain spirits prate to river sprites, That dames may listen to the sound at nights; And goblin brats, of Gilpin Horner's brood,8 Decoy young Border-nobles through the wood, And skip at every step, Lord knows how high, And frighten foolish babes, the Lord knows why; 160 While high-born ladies in their magic cell, Forbidding Knights to read who cannot spell, Despatch a courier to a wizard's grave, And fight with honest men to shield a knave.

Next view in state, proud prancing on his roan, The golden-crested haughty Marmion, Now forging scrolls, now foremost in the fight, Not quite a Felon, yet but half a Knight, The gibbet or the field prepared to grace— A mighty mixture of the great and base. 170 And think'st thou, Scott! by vain conceit perchance, On public taste to foist thy stale romance, Though Murray with his Millert may combine To yield thy muse just half-a-crown per line? No! when the sons of song descend to trade, Their bays are sear, their former laurels fade; Let such forego the poet’s sacred name, Who rack their brains for lucre, not for fame: Still for stern Mammon may they toil in vain! And sadly gaze on gold they cannot gain! 180 Such be their meed, such still the just reward Of prostituted Muse and hireling bard! For this we spurn Apollo’s venal son,8 And bid a long ‘‘good night to Marmion.”9 6 Scott's Lay of the Last Minstrel (1805) #. out of a suggestion for a ballad derived from an absurd old Border legend of Gilpin Horner. 7. Publishers. 8 i. e., this bought Orpheus (Scott) 9 Marmion, line 869.

* This is a sneer at the new anapestic metres. See Eng. Lit., p. 243.

5 By “Monk” Lewis (Eng. Lit., 204).

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